Lifestyle: In Practice

My gold hoops sing louder than my voice when I’m told to be quiet. They clink in church, shimmer on the subway, and carry my mother’s legacy through every loop and shine. Dominican girls don’t do minimalism—we layer colors, fabrics, laughter, and history. Where others see chaos, we see home. I am my island’s treasure, loud and golden, taking up space because that’s what Dominican women were born to do.

Spanish lives in my hellos and goodbyes, in domino games with my tíos, in memories of piña coladas and mangú. I was the girl who stopped speaking Spanish at five, who traded merengue for iced coffee and skyscrapers, but still sneaks bachata into her cleaning playlists. Between two worlds, I write my rebellion in Spanglish. I am still Dominicana, even when I dream in English.

Women are forced to perform — in pain, in love, in how we exist. We are expected to cry beautifully, to suffer gracefully, to turn heartbreak into something marketable. Our pain becomes performance, our struggle becomes art, and our silence becomes survival. Society doesn’t value women until we’re gone, yet demands we endure everything with poise. “Pain as Performance” is a manifesto on how femininity is packaged, sold, and sanctified through suffering.

Rain in New York smells like wet garbage and melted metal, rising off the pavement in waves of heat and noise. But Dominican rain—ay, that’s different. It’s holy and feral, a slap and a kiss at once. It cools the body, blesses the skin, hums against red clay rooftops like prayer. Kids splash barefoot, unbothered, while the island exhales. There, rain isn’t ruin. It’s reminder. It’s mercy. It’s home.

There is something sacred about doing my hair. For years I fought my curls, straightened and burned them into silence. Now, every wash, mask, and diffuser pass feels like prayer—scrubbing away trauma, sealing in love, and watching my curls rise again. This ritual is more than routine; it’s devotion, survival, and a reclaiming of beauty once shamed. My hair is no longer something to tame—it’s a freedom I bless daily.

Faith betrayed me in the silence of prayer. I begged for my father’s laugh to return, for color to rise back in his face, but nothing changed. The man who once carried me on his shoulders could barely carry himself across the room. Later, faith betrayed me again with my grandmother—once a warrior, now fading, her love stronger than her memory. I learned faith doesn’t always protect the strong; sometimes it strips them away piece by piece.

In Loving Someone in Spanglish, Grace Sofia explores how love carries memory—songs sung by mothers and abuelas, healing rituals of gargara and VaporRub, recipes passed down through kitchens, and kisses once dodged but now given freely. To love in Spanglish is to weave English and Spanish, New York and the Dominican Republic, childhood and adulthood—tender fragments that reveal care in every gesture.

My body is not a battleground, though it carries scars both visible and hidden. It’s marked by ink, trauma, and survival, yet it remains mine—breathing, enduring, beautiful. Each scar tells a story of pain, resilience, and transformation. What was stolen, broken, and bled into the past now lives as a layered canvas of survival. My body is both ruin and rebirth, a reminder that I kept going, and I chose to keep it mine.

Beautiful things happen when women refuse to behave. When they protest, leave, say no, and choose themselves first, the world shifts. Men are praised for the bare minimum, while women are expected to be mothers, superheroes, caretakers, and silent. Misbehaving is survival—it’s rebellion, autonomy, and choice. When women misbehave, daughters and granddaughters inherit bravery, freedom, and the right to be unapologetically themselves.

I recently suffered one of the worst breakups of my life—a friend breakup. After years of support, the rug was pulled out from under me. I had to make my life worth waking up to without part of my support system. I dispose of everything tied to them, donate it to mark the end. I create a playlist, cry, then delete it. I reclaim my space, invest in my future, and go on solo dates. And in writing a goodbye letter, I release the pain and learn from it.

By Sofía Villafaña  3Play, a stupid pun of three way, a dumb app that encourages singles to meet with couples as a third. It was also meant for various relationships in the spectrum of sexualities out there, and I was hoping it would be where I learned to dance with the devil and his demons. met a lot of couples on the app, in a time where I was exploring my identity in bounds that felt safe. I could no longer be alone with men, and I had always been curious about my attract

by María Del Mal  The first time I said it, it was quiet, a soft plea on my lips, “Stop, I want to stop.” He chuckled. He leaned back down kissing my neck and I pressed my hands against his shoulders, “No, I’m serious, stop.”  “Come on,” he sighed. “Don’t be a tease.” I remember freezing, my brain splitting with the decision to stay and play it safe or run, trying to find my best chance at survival. I remember when he shoved his tongue down my throat, my protests died betw

My mom has given me life-saving advice in between flipping tostones and yelling at the TV. Some of it made no damn sense at the time—don’t sleep over anyone’s house porque nunca sabes? I thought she was paranoid. Turns out, she was right. Turns out, my mom saw danger way before I could spell it. Her consejos were layered with fear, love, culture, and survival. Now, as a grown woman walking through this wild world, I carry those words like armor.

There’s something sacred about pushing a red cart down the aisles of Target when your brain feels like a battlefield. For me, these trips aren’t about consumerism — they’re about survival. A new lip gloss, some eucalyptus-scented body wash, a candle I’ll never light — these aren’t luxuries, they’re lifelines. When everything feels too heavy, Target gives me the illusion of control, a ritual of joy, and just enough peace to make it to next week.

I wasn’t asking for a fantasy—I just wanted honesty. But when men act like boyfriends and refuse to give you the title, it’s not romance, it’s manipulation. Swift gave me the world, but not his word. This is what I learned: confusion is not chemistry, it’s a red flag waving in your face. I don’t do placeholders anymore. If it’s not clear, it’s cut.

I don’t believe in perfection, I believe in intention. In crying on the bathroom floor with my tits out and God still pulling me into His arms. I believe in girls who hex their exes and still pray for their nieces’ safety. I believe in rage, in contradiction, in horny heartbreak and petty healing. I believe in heaven for the girls who curse and cry and come and still try to do better the next day. God doesn’t want a perfect woman—He wants an honest one. And I’m her.

Yes, I regret having an abortion. Yes, I’d still do it again. I lost something real and loving, but I saved myself. I chose me, my future, my life. And I will never be sorry for that.

I don’t write about a singular wound—I write about a thousand paper cuts that never healed. My stories aren’t just art, they’re survival. I write as rebellion, as therapy, as proof that I’ve lived through every heartbreak, identity crisis, and invisible moment. Writing is where I get to be soft, angry, Dominican, and divine—all at once.

Dear Readers, As an MFA student and New York native, my bag is my life. A Brandon Blackwood leather handbag, gifted after a hard semester, holds my Moleskine, pen, and pencil for chasing ideas. Dominicana by Angie Cruz fuels my literary escape, while Penelope keeps me company through New York’s endless tourist season. Essentials: camera for moments, lip liner for confidence, scrunchie and gel for control, and pepper spray, because safety matters. -Sofía Villafaña

Uniform was optional, getting yelled at wasn’t. Field trips blurred together, but the joy was real—Taki fingers, shared earbuds, cracked bus seats. Then came the pleated skirts, shiny black shoes, and tuition that cost more than some made in a year. This is the story of both—where public school gave me heart, and private school handed me the rules.